The Woman of Primrose Cottage
by Magnolie
Summary: Sherlock saved Irene in Yemen before taking her home to Britain savely - 3 chapters will lead you through a year of their unusual life apart from each other and eventually together / Post Reichenbach
1. The Pledge

_Hello everyone, I really hope you'll like my story.  
The three following chapters will lead you through two years of Irene's and Sherlock's unsual life.  
The first chapter ist post 'Scandal in Belgravia' and the third will be post 'Reichenbach' as well.  
Please enjoy!  
Yours, Magonile_

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**The Woman of Primrose Cottage  
****  
**_to Isabella - as usual  
_

**1. The Pledge**

„You know this isn't just fun or another of your adventures. "

"I do."

"You know that you'll have to change your life. No escapades anymore, no 'I knew what he liked'-stuff anymore."

"I know."

She raised her head. They had lain down on the small bed in their small hotel room with air as thick as wool. Sherlock wasn't looking at her. He was following the tiny fractures above them in the ceiling. She knew he actually wasn't interested at all, but these were the first lines they had spoken since her rescue. She looked at him tiredly. It was silent.

She still had blood on her face. Thick blood that had turned dark red, almost black.

"You have blood on your forehead, Irene."

"I know, Sherlock."

"You need to wash your face." He sat up and left the room to enter the bath "And to colour your hair."

She sat up too and crossed her legs on the blanket.

"Why?"

"I called someone; we're getting you a passport by the morning before we take the ship to Egypt."

"Wait, you really planned this? For me?"  
Her voice was high pitched.  
She still had no idea what to say or what to think. What it meant that he had come here to save her. He must have had an eye on her during the last weeks. How else could he have found her in the middle of nowhere and saved her life? And finally: Why? He had declared her a fool for her love.

She watched him prepare the hair colour for her. He did not answer until she got up to join him. She gently touched his arm.

"Sherlock?"

He still didn't look at her. He had no answer himself. His glare fell on her face and skin. She looked so fragile without her expensive dresses and her perfect hair. More fragile than the day he had found her sleeping on his bed. The skin beneath her eyes was blue and her mascara was smudgy. It mixed with blood in some places.

She wasn't the same anymore. She was different somehow. Softer – possibly.

"Get yourself a shower." He placed the hair colour set on the tray under the mirror and left the room without looking at her again.

Irene swallowed and closed the door gently. She heard him leave the room and his steps on the floor. Four steps away from the room, four steps back to the door, silence. She then recognised how he turned around and walked away, taking the stairs.

The Bathtub was small and the water wouldn't get colder or hotter no matter how hard she tried. In a sudden burst of ire she smashed the shower head against the wall and a first tear ran down her face.  
She hadn't cried in years and now the tears came silently – but only first and it didn't take long until she sobbed and cried out loudly, hoping that he wouldn't return to soon.  
She had never felt that weak in her entire life. And she had never felt that real and human.

Sherlock had left the hotel in order to get some fresh air. The evening was much cooler than expected but he was thankful. Yemen was hot and dry.

He still had no idea what he was doing here at all. It had only been two days ago that his contact had called him in the middle of the night and told him where Irene Adler had last been seen. His brain had gone off as he had left Bakerstreet with nothing but a small bag and his passport. He hadn't even told John.  
He was afraid of the answer to her questions.

Sherlock took three, four, five deep breaths before he noticed the cigarette seller across the street and inserted some coins to get himself his 'drug'.  
He smoked three of them until his throat was sore and he tasted the tobacco in his mouth. A bench nearby looked extremely convenient. Behind it was a small park or garden.

He closed his eyes to listen to the city and the traffic. The hotel was situated next to a crossroad and on the opposite of a large shopping mall. Hundreds of people were entering and leaving the mall and the restaurant next to it. The fountain in the garden next to him gurgled hardly discernible in the traffic jam.

It took him twenty more minutes to arise and leave.  
He found her sitting on the ground by the window. She was wearing a bathrobe and her hair was still wet and dripping. When she heard the door she turned around. As she got up she closed the robe to not reveal her breasts. She then recognised how stupid it actually was but she refrained from letting the cotton go.

"Your hair is red." He said, not moving an inch.

"It is. I'm astonished you told me. It's obvious." she grinned coldly "You are still having a hard time to deduce when it comes to me, right?" she crossed her arms in front of her body, taking a step towards him.

She was right. When it came to her, he behaved like a beginner. One deduction at a time, if he was lucky enough. Sherlock looked at her.  
She was so beautiful: her skin, her hair, her face. In this very moment he first detected her beauty. Not in general, but for himself. Not as a pattern of right proportions and attraction that would arouse men as usual.

No, _he_ was attracted to her, she was beautiful to him.

"You will catch a cold." He mumbled before he took a towel from the commode and placed it on her hair before he started drying it gently.

Irene looked at him while he was focusing on her hair. He never looked her directly in the eyes but she followed very movement of his.

"Thank you." She said, almost silently "You saved my life." She placed one of her hands over his heart and felt it beading "You came all the way down here just to keep me save. I know we're both not the romantic type of human but - this was the most precious thing that someone has ever done to me." She revealed a smile.

"You're welcome." Was his short and rather cold answer, but she could see that his brain was working - his movements had become slower as he softly knead her curls. He swallowed some air and his glare found her eyes.

Irene lifted her hand to his face before she placed a kiss of his cheek carefully.  
"Thank you so much."  
He let go of the towel and sank his hands to her arms while she leaned against his shoulder.  
He thought about giving in. To kiss her and tell her that he had been an idiot when he judge her for her love. And that – that he was the same kind of idiot, his actions earlier today finally proving it, proving that love made people do strange things.  
But he didn't.

She did. She gave in.

When she had blow-dried her hair and put on a night gown, she came to their bed and placed her head on his chest. He had already closed his eyes but his lamp was still shining. She wanted to reach for the switch but when he felt her moving her arm he did it himself, not opening one eye. Instead he placed his right hand on her waist and enjoyed her scent.

"Good night."

The morning came much too early.  
Sherlock was the first to wake up. Irene laid by his side, her face turned away from him but still touching him with her back. The sun was shining through the yellow curtains. It was 6.30.  
He sat up immediately, trying not to wake her up. He had sleep in his eyes and blinked a few time until his sight became clearer. He spotted his bag on the opposite corner of the room.

Irene personal things, passport, wallet, makeup and clothes had been taken from her. The only things that were left was the burqa she was wearing when he had found her, her mobile phone, black trousers and a white blouse. He had seen her washing them before going to bed last night.

"What time is it?"

"6.30"

"Do we have to leave?"

"Not yet."

He didn't turn around to her - not even when he felt her hand brushing his back for a second. He closed his eyes again, enjoying it, praying to feel it again on his spine. As if she had heard his thoughts she carefully returned her hand and touched him gently.  
He'd never admit it though.

The ship left in the late afternoon.  
They travelled as Sherlock Holmes and _Sarah Hughs. _It had been her idea to copy his initials. Sherlock had rolled his eyes and sighed but not objected.  
She looked better now: Her hair red and open, sunglasses on her nose and wearing a white dress as they accessed the ship. They had even bought a Louise Vuitton bag for her and a matching suitcase. A woman without luggage would have been too odd. She smiled brightly and almost Irene-like when she entered the cabin, a middle-sized room with only one bed, a table and a cupboard.

"Enjoyed last night a little too much, didn't we?"  
She grinned as they stored their few bags in the cupboard and Irene sat seductively down on one of the chairs next to the table licking her lips grinning.

"I booked the cabin when I booked my flight back in London."  
Was his dry answer and Irene rolled her eyes before she got up to examine their 'balcony'.  
It was possible to leave the cabin through a second door, leading to an open 'path' between the cabins and the ships' rail. The floor was made from wood and the rail was painted in white.

Sun was setting on the horizon and only the ocean was separating her from the bright yellow light in the distance.

"How comes that the ship doesn't look like our hotel room?"  
When she turned around she noticed that he had come to stand in the door frame only inches apart.

"It's a cruise liner. Not the Queen Mary 2 but a trip through the Red Sea seems to be a rather nice way to spend a holiday over here. And it still is the cheapest way to come to Egypt. Enjoy this cruise. It will get worse."

"How?"

"Controls on ships are less tight than those on airplanes, especially when you enter the European Union. Irene Adler died in Yemen; _Sarah Hughs_ went to Egypt 32 years ago with her parents and will now return to England."

"Why couldn't we fly to England from Yemen?"

"Because I don't want Sarah Hugh's Identity, which hasn't got any records of anything since yesterday, appear in Yemen the same day Irene Adler died."

She still wasn't satisfied. But she remained silent, watching the sun. She heard him going back into the room, probably emptying their few bags and exploring their room.  
Irene stayed outside until sun had set. Only now and then someone else appeared on deck, wandering from one cabin to the other or making their way to the ship's prow. Arabian women mostly or children.

They did not leave for dinner or supper. And they didn't order food.  
None of them was hungry. Not for food at least.  
So when the lights of the city eventually disappeared behind the horizon and the moon was the only source of light in the sky, Irene took a scarf, wrapped it around her shoulders and followed the path to the prow of the ship sitting down on one of the sun loungers.

Her mind was empty, for once. No annoying thoughts or guesses, or questions that had been bothering her for the last hours without pause. She hadn't seen much of Sherlock since they had left the harbour. He had turned the TV on and off, changed and been to the bathroom. She had never turned around only listened to his motions. She had no Idea how long she had been standing at the railing but it must have been quite a while.

"It's a bit late for a sunbath isn't it?"

There he was, all of a sudden. He stood only a few feet away from her.  
He was wearing black trousers and a white shirt. He had opened the upper buttons and she liked it.

"I was trying to... not-think."

"That's not possible."

"Well prove me wrong, Mr Holmes."

"Humans are always thinking. Even when they sleep they think."

"What about meditation?"

"It has been proven that even the brains of Buddhist monks show some partial use when they are meditating."

She stayed silent for a second.

"What is this about?" she asked with a clear voice.

"I have a request."

"What can a humble woman like me do for the great Sherlock Holmes?" She asked playfully, not looking at him but at the endless sea to her left.

She really had no idea what he was going to ask.

"You said something about dinner the last time we met."

"Yes." She answered confused. "I'm sure they gonna make you some if we call the kitchen." She stood up walking towards him.

"Not that kind of dinner." He said with a dry voice, finally staring directly into her eyes.

They slept with each other that night. For the first time.  
Undressing one another slowly. Not talking a word. Staring. Touching. Kissing.  
She didn't have to do much. He knew exactly how and where to touch her, or kiss her. They fit perfect and for the first time in years, she wasn't violent or commanding.

Just her. And him in a bed. Together and not letting go of each other.  
The sun was already rising behind the horizon when they finally fell asleep. He had both his arms wrapped around her waist, his nose in her open and wild hair, eyes closed.  
The first ray of sunlight was the last thing she saw before her eyes closed and she slipped into a wonderful dreamless sleep.


	2. The Turn

_Hello everyone, so this is chapter two._  
_I had already worked on it when I uploaded the first chapter so this was really fast. I have no idea if the third chapter will be up_  
_here **THAT** fast but I already know what is going to happen and I will start writing on the weekend ;)_  
_You might also wanna know that english is not my native language, I'm german. So please excuse minor grammar and spelling mistakes~  
As we say in Germany: "Wer einen Fehler findet, darf ihn behalten" (Whover finds a mistake may maintains it)._

Thanks reading!

Yours, Magnolie

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**2. The Turn**

Florice Walker was still half asleep when she entered her parents' small corner shop on Mill Street.  
It was the first Saturday in weeks she had come home from Liverpool University to be with her parents. University was wearing her out and she was already thinking about quitting, which was not an option of course.

"Mom, are you here?" she called out before she saw her mother talking to another woman, Mrs Haywire who was just about to pay.

"Florice... have you heard of the lady that is living in Primrose Cottage?" her mother asked from afar.

"Mom, I've been here for not even half a day, how am I supposed to know?" she yelled grumpily while coming closer.

"Well she moved in more than three months ago, but no one has really seen her since then." Mrs Haywire, big lady with short, red hair from the town, said.

"Hasn't she been here? I mean she must be eating something." Florice asked her mother.

"Maybe your father served her and just didn't care."

"Where is she from?" Florice got herself a small chocolate bar, and started eating it.

"I have not the slightest idea. But she looks American."

"Mom, how does someone look 'American'?" Florice moaned.

"But her boyfriend had a British accent." Mrs Haywire now added.

"Oh, so this is about gossip." Florice moaned again "Have you two even met her?"

"No, but Fanny and I were planning to bring her some cake this afternoon, would you two like to join us?" Mrs Haywire smiled brightly.

Of course her mother wanted. Florice could think of at least 10 better ways to spend her day. Fanny Haywire was the most stupid and annoying girl she had ever met, and she knew Fanny since elementary school. She was her age, had blonde hair and was still living at home without a job. And Fanny's mother was almost as naive as her own.

But Primrose Cottage hadn't been rent since the late nineties. Although it was the most beautiful small house one could imagine, Luis, the village, was far off everything. No one ever got here if he didn't know the exact way.  
And Primrose Cottage was on the cliff, at least half a mile away from the village.  
One had a beautiful view over the sea but it was a lonely place to be far away from everyone you might miss.  
So what kind of presumably American woman was that, living away from her presumably British 'boyfriend'?

Florice didn't have much time to wonder about that question for afternoon came quickly and her mother had have her baking some muffins for the woman of Primrose Cottage.  
It was around three when the four of them were 'climbing' the cliff to Primrose Cottage. The wind was blowing and made the warm sunlight feel cold on their skin.  
Florence was freezing when they finally reached Primrose Cottage.

Someone had started to lay out a garden and also painted the lanai in bright blue. The woman must have bought the house then instead of just renting it.  
Fanny was closest to the door and rang the bell twice. It wasn't until then that Florice heard low instrumental music from the inside before the door was finally opened by a small, young woman in her early thirties. She had long, dark brown curls and was wearing a blue pullover and white trousers.

"Yes please?" she asked the small fellowship standing on her lanai.

"Hi, we are the Walkers and the Haywires. We have heard that you moved in here and wanted to bring some cake for you." Fanny said with her brightest smile showing her the cake she and her mother had brought.

The lady looked behind her into the house reluctantly, not opening the door any further.  
Florice could feel that the dark-haired woman was not prepared for any guests and felt uncomfortable. She heard someone turning down the music inside before steps were approaching.

"I was about to leave anyway, Sarah." A male voice said from inside "I'm going upstairs to get my bags. Let your guests in." Someone then started climbing the stairs.

The woman smiled as she watched him going upstairs but then turned to the four women outside.

"Yah, please just come in. But it's kinda messy in here."

"Told you, American!" her mother whispered to Florice when they walked inside the cottage.

The stairs were directly next to the door on the left, leading to the second storey. A door made from blind glass separated the small hallway from the rest of the first floor. Bags and shoes were lying around on the ground while coats and jackets were hanging down from some hooks attached to the wall.

The separating-door was open and a small floor let into a large living and dining room that was round and had panorama windows which allowed a decent few over the sea. The kitchen was open and directly attached to the right of the room.

"Please have a seat." She offered them the chairs at a table on the left side of the room and they all sat down. Florice saw a chessboard on the table that was standing between two couches and an armchair. The white king was overturned so she guessed white had lost this game.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" the woman asked then and they all nodded.

She was already pouring the tea into cups when they heard the man coming downstairs. She brought the Tea to her guest before she excused herself for a moment to say goodbye.

Florice saw her disappearing behind the glass door and handing the man a jacket from the hooks but because of the blind glass, all she saw were silhouettes.  
She could hear they were talking about something before she touched his face and he kissed her goodbye.

When the women returned as the door closed behind him. As she entered the living room again, she closed the glass door.

"Well, it's very nice to finally meet someone from the village." She said "I'm... I'm Sarah Hughes by the way."

"This is my daughter Florice and Laura's daughter Fanny, and you can call me Caroline." Florice mother introduced themselves.

"It's a pleasure." Ms Hughs said and sat down at the table.

A car, probably parked behind the house, started outside. The man was finally leaving.

"So... that was your boyfriend?" Fanny asked.

"Oh... oh well... no I guess that would be a too easy way to explain all this." Florice saw a sad glare in her eyes. "He... he somehow saved my life and we have been... very close since then. He lives in London and sometimes comes here when..." she was about to say 'bored' what would have been the truth but she went with "...he finds some time."

"Well however it is so nice to finally see the cottage occupied." Florice mother said.

"Yes, we... I bought it a while ago and I must say I enjoy living here a lot."

"Aren't you lonely?" Florice said something for the first time.

"I have been in company for quite a long period of my life. So no, it's quite pleasant to have no one around." A lie.

"And what do you work?" Fanny asked while eating one of Florice Muffins. Florice started to get embarrassed by the girl.

"I have been very blessed." was the only thing Ms Hughs answered politely. Another lie.

"We just wanted to tell you, that you are very welcome to ask for help if you need some." Mrs Haywire tried to clean up Fanny's 'mess'. "My son is a mechanic and my husband has built up quite a few wardrobes and bookshelves."

"Thank you very much. I will surely come back to that."

She didn't. Not a single time.

The small group went back home only an hour later on Florice demand. Ms Hughs was getting more and more uncomfortable with any minute they stayed and on her mind it had been rude to disturb her like that in the first place.  
A woman that has been living in a house for such a long time and never made any contact to other people probably didn't want to have any visitors.

Irene was more than relieved when the four gossips had left her house.  
She hated having guest and she hated that kind of women. Housewives that were not even able to open an email account without their husband's help, let alone a bookshelf. One of the daughters, the one who was studying in Liverpool, had seemed to be the only educated and modest of them.

She directly threw the cake and the rest of the muffins into her bin before she turned the music up again and sat herself down on the couch. She was getting crazy out here. No one around, no shops besides the butcher and the corner store down in Luis. Her internet connection was a question of weather and Sherlock only visited her once or twice a month.

Things had been complicated since they had returned from Yemen.  
She knew he had feelings for her. Feelings he wasn't capable of yet and feelings she hadn't felt in ages. They slept with each other on a regular base. Every time he came to visit her and keep her company... it was beautiful. Sometimes rude but always pleasant.

He came to her house when he was bored and no case was keeping him entertained.  
Then she put up her chessboard and they played for hours, always sleeping with each other afterwards. They never talked about it. They talked about everything: His cases, her garden (which definitely was one of her favourite topics!), Mycroft, John, TV ... but they never talked about the fact that they were having some kind of relationship.

Irene was going nuts.  
What was she supposed to do up here? She had even started to put up a small potager in front of the house and painted the veranda. She had furnished the house and the garden behind it. She hadn't bought and paintings and had instead bought loads of canvas and colours. But however, they were still white. Every time she sat before her easel in that small, light room upstairs her mind went blank.

Sherlock, of course, had made fun of it. Art, her and her white canvases.  
Hell, this wasn't her!

Yes, she would have changed for him. She would have stopped doing what she had done for all her life... for him. She knew she was safe up here. No one was searching for Irene Adler anymore. And Sarah Hughs was an inconspicuous, English citizen. And it was good that way. But it wasn't fine.

She started tidying the room: First the dining table, the chairs, the kitchen... and when she was done with that, she sat down in front of the chessboard.  
Sherlock would always take white when they played. Well, it actually was her taking black leaving him nothing than white to play with.**  
**He had lost their last game.  
That usually meant, that he would stay another day, but something was bothering him and Irene was sure she knew what - or better whom - it was about.

They never talked about Jim (that was what she called him) or Moriarty (that was what he called him). Just like their 'relationship' it was one of the topics they never discussed. Just out of the blue, Sherlock sometimes asked if she had ever slept with this and that politician, show master or CEO. He never asked if she liked him to come more often, if she liked his caressing or waking up next to him in the morning. He never told her _he_ did.

She looked out of the panorama window.  
She would leave the game on display. Just so he would have a reminder of his debts next time he came to visit her up here.

Hopefully sooner than later.


	3. The Prestige

**Here we go, this is the last chapter. I hope you've all enjoyed the story and will leave a comment ;)**

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**3. The Prestige**

Irene did not know then what was yet to come.

The first week passed by quick and silently. Before she realised, it was Saturday again without one of his phone calls. Sherlock usually called her on Wednesday evenings around six but that night the phone stayed silent.

A few days later she found the reason why in the papers: He had gone out to Dartmoor to investigate a case. She saw it when she was paying at the corner shop in Luis. The papers were usually spread out on the cashier's table. She had never bought one but as soon as she saw his slack body in the background of the photo, his black curls and his glare, that was not even visible, but visible to her, his... his lover... she bought it and started reading right on the way back home.

That night she didn't sleep well and couldn't wait for his call on Wednesday. It was one of the longest nights she ever had gone through and Wednesday came slowly.  
But it was horrible. She felt ill and decided to go out for a walk in the late Wednesday midday. She hoped the fresh air up in the woods would cheer her up, but she felt even worse when she entered the small path through the forest. He head ached and a freezing breeze was haunting the air. The forest was whispering and she had to turn around more that once to make sure no one was following her.

She missed him so much. She missed him so much that every fibre of her being was thinking about him. Nothing else crossed her mind but him. She was sick and she felt sick. He was haunting her. Their nights together were haunting her, every touch and every kiss.  
It had never been that bad. Never in the last months – hell – never in her whole life!

When she was in the last and darkest part of the wood she was so close to running and taking the next best cab/bus/train to London. She was already calculating the minutes and hours it would take to get there when she left the woods.  
She was standing only 20 meters away from the cliff. Hard, English winds were blowing right into her face as she sat down on a stone. The wind drove hot tears into her eyes, but she wiped them away all at once, as if they'd never come.

She would not go to London tonight. She would never, ever leave this house.  
It was her golden cage. And it would ever be.

Her body was shivering when the next thought crossed her mind. She didn't realise how long she must have had been sitting on that stone. It was as if she had blacked out for a while. Her bottom was cold and felt dead. Never had anyone made her feel like this. She did not like that feeling but she was at his mercy.  
There was nothing she could do and she was disgusted by her weakness.

She slowly made her way back home. This time she did not listen to the winds in the leaves, or the sounds of the undergrowth beneath her. She just stared at the ground, her nose and mouth safely covered by her jacket.

When she opened the house, she heard her telephone ringing on the kitchen table.  
It must be him, she thought and realised, that it was late for his call only a moment before she deducted that this wasn't his first call.

"Where have you been?" yelled he. He was angry and his voice was loud and wild "This is my sixth call Irene, where the hell have you been?"

"I've been out for a walk. Calm down!" was her loud answer.

"For four hours? Is that one of your jokes?" there was a crack in his voice and suddenly he sounded not only angry, but also worried.

She looked at the clock on the wall. Hell...  
He was right. But she was to hurt to admit it.

"I'm not your prisoner; I go out whenever I want it!" She said calm but firmly.

"Irene, I have been calling you for the last four hours! I thought something had happened to you! I was getting ready to come up there and-"

"So why don't you come here?" she screamed. No she was the angry one. "Have you ever thought about how I feel with this? Not being able to call you when I need someone? When I need _**you**_? You've put me into a jail!"

"I saved your life!" he shouted.

"This isn't my life! This might be _Sarah's_ life but it's not mine, Sherlock. I'm so sick of pretending!" she started crying and this time she couldn't pretend the tears never came, or that they were caused by the wind.

What followed was silence. She heard him breath and she was sure he heard her sobbing.

It took five long, quite minutes until she let the phone sink and pressed the red button and wiped all her tears away.

She was alone, sitting on her white couch that was appearing reddish from the setting sun behind the sea.  
He was alone, sitting on his couch at Bakerstreet, staring into the nothing on the opposite wall.

They didn't talk for two weeks. He did not call, and Irene didn't thought about calling him.  
Well – from the second day on. She spend Thursday in bed, sleeping. She had taken some strong painkillers that made her feel dizzy (on purpose) and so she spent the whole day in the sweet nothing between dream and reality.

On Friday afternoon went she down to Luis. She met that Florice-girl at the corner shop and exchanged a polite look before she returned to her cottage, almost empty handed. She started smoking that day again and finally, finally she knew what to paint.

On Saturday opened she the colours. The first brushstrokes came easily and soon she had completed her first picture. She had it dry out until she put it on the wall in the dining room.  
It was an abstract painting and she wasn't sure what it was herself but it was enough and satisfied her for now.

The weeks went by quickly. First one, then two, then tree. And it went on like this.  
When the second month had passed without one of his calls she finally came to the conclusion, that she had overcome him.

It was a Wednesday when she went down to Luis again. She hadn't received post for more than a week. Tim, the postman, was ill and hadn't come to her house for a while. So she had to go to the post office and wanted to buy some groceries. That Florice-girl wasn't in the shop that day. It slightly confused her for during the last months she had always been there in the afternoons. Irene had heard her talking to her mother once... about university in Liverpool, her boyfriend and wanting to quit the study.

Irene had deduced the she had indeed quit studying and now worked in her parent's corner shop. The red eyes that Florice-girl had shown for over a week were probably a sign of her boyfriend breaking up with her. But Irene hadn't dared to ask. She wasn't even sure if Florice really was her name.

Her mother was there instead. She greeted Irene friendly but did not talk to her any further. She had already concluded that that lady wasn't such a talkative customer.  
It wasn't again until Irene had paid that she saw the newspapers.

It pierced her heart violently.

"What is that?" she wrenched one of the papers from the stand and slapped it down on the cashier's table.

"That is the South England Post Ms Hughs."

"No, no I mean from when is that?" panic crossed her eyes.

"It came this morning." The woman took the paper and turned it around "What is it?"

"Nothing. I... I need to go home."

She almost ran the way up to the cottage. Her body ached but she couldn't stop. This could not be true! This had to be a mistake. She didn't allow herself to cry until she had entered the house.

She panicky searched for the remote control of her TV and switch through every channel until she had found one that broadcasted the disturbing news from London, she had just read in the newspaper at the shop.

"_... it is not yet cleared why he killed himself but friends and family have confirmed that Sherlock Holmes had been depressive for months. The now so called 'Moriarty-controversy' had probably been the cause for his suicide. Holmes had been working as a private detective for the last years. His assistant had uploaded their cases online to his blog that made Holmes a well known 'internet-phenomenon'. But during the last weeks..."_

Irene suddenly felt dizzy.  
It took only a second before everything around her went black and the last thing she felt was the ground.

It didn't take long until she woke up again.  
Still feeling dizzy, she ran up the stairs into her study and searched franticly for the number, John's number. She had once stolen Sherlock's phone when he had slept to copy it. Just in case. But no, she had never intended to use it, she hadn't been able to think about why she would. But this was a reason, a reason so inconceivable that she had never even thought of it.

But she had to know.

She typed the ciphers into her own mobile phone and pressed the green button. Her hands were shaking. Her breath went hollow.

He sounded tired when he answered. It took him five free line signals.

"John Watson."

"Is it true?" she asked, her voice shaking.

"Who is it?"

"Is he dead?" she almost swallowed the sentence "Or is this one if his jokes?"

Standing at the other end of the line he had no idea who this was. The voice was too low and silent. But he was so tired. He still felt numb and dead. So he just answered.

"No. The funeral is next week."

He heard the woman cry out before the line went dead.

She lay down on her bed and started crying. She just couldn't stop. She was so empty. All the things she had thrown at him... he had saved her life for god's sake! He had saved her in every way he could have! What was she supposed to do now? Live here forever until she died? This wasn't life ... without him.

Only slowly did the tears dry out. When not a single teardrop was left within her, she fell into a dreamless sleep.

It was early evening when she awoke again.  
Violin music was still playing downstairs.  
Irene turned around and tried to fall asleep again as soon as she remembered what had happened. She closed her eyes to prevent herself form starting to cry all over again. Instead she just sobbed and hugged her blanket.

She tried to breathe calmly and not to think of him.  
But it was so hard with the music playing downstairs.  
Why had she turned it on?

She hadn't.

Within a second she was standing. Her white blouse completely crinkled, her hair messy and open. She slowly went down the stairs, her hart was beading loud and fast.  
She had no idea what to think. She didn't dare to hope. No she wouldn't. John had told her he was dead. He had sounded so worn out he wouldn't have lied to her.

Irene saw a baseball bat standing next to the door to her living room. She took it firmly with sweaty hands and opened the door.

Sun was shining directly into her face and she first thought she saw a ghost when she saw him sitting in her chair, playing the violin. Maybe this was just a dream.

"You're home?" he looked confused when he saw her standing in the door. He hadn't seen her since he had arrived and deduced that she was out for a walk. Her bag was here but he had lost count of her shoes and coats. For no one had answered the door when he had belled he thought that she wasn't home.

"You're not... you're not-"

"Did you cry? Why did you cry?"

"Because you died?" she let the bat sink.

"Yes, I send you a letter. So why have you been crying?" Sherlock was angry.

"I've never received a letter. My postman is ill." was all she could say.

She covered her mouth with her right hand before she went towards him only to hug him and to kiss and smell his hair. Soon her tears were falling again.

"You're not dead." A feeling of complete happiness went through her when he took her in his arms and hugged her too. And she repeated the sentence over and over again.

And now she saw his big, black bag standing by the windows. He was finally coming to be with her.  
And when he started kissing her she had soon forgotten about all the pain.

"I'm so sorry." was something someone, maybe both said. Neither of them was able to tell who.

Four days later a letter arrived at the house.  
Sherlock was still sleeping upstairs when Irene opened it in her kitchen.  
They hadn't really left the bedroom since he had surprised her the other day.

Inside the envelop was a bald card with only a Black Queen printed on it.

_I am finally hungry, let's have dinner._

was the only thing written on the inside in his beautiful handwriting.

She closed her eyes and let happiness suffuse her.  
He had saved her.

They had both won.

* * *

There we are. I'm done.  
I hope you liked it and enjoyed reading. I am ill. I have a cold and I actually have to learn for my dutch exam that almost screwed this story up. There are so many english words in the dutch language but sometimes they mean different things or they ust sound english... I hope there're not to many mistakes...

Last season we had some kind of a bet running: I said Irene was gonna save them, my best friend said it would be Microft and... well I don't really remember what the other said. In the end I was right and this somehow is my guess for this time: Where is Sherlock? - _He is with Irene 3_

Greetings to everyone and don't forget to write a review ;)  
Magnolie


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